


Leather and Pinstripe

by EliDeetz



Category: Law & Order: SVU, Trouble in the Heights (2011)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliDeetz/pseuds/EliDeetz
Summary: Sentiment; a chemical defect found on the losing side.Based of my Trouble in the Heights meets SVU headcanon in Tumblr.





	Leather and Pinstripe

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had the first chapter for a while now but was hesitant to post it, guess I was somewhat afraid it won’t be a good as the idea itself. But, I know many people started following me in hopes I’d go through with it. So, here it is.
> 
> A million thanks to my amazing beta reader x-sparkling-sun-x (@Tumblr), if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be posting this. 
> 
> Please, enjoy! Feedback is more than welcomed, I’d love to hear what you have to say.

Nevada Ramirez always loved a challenge. And boy, did he find one as soon as he’d set eyes on her. 

He’d never seen her before, not in that club, not around Washington Heights. He was certain that if he had, he’d remember, and nobody could convince him otherwise. 

The stranger was dressed nicely,  _too_  nice for the type of place they were at. Almost causing her to look dull compared to the other girls wearing revealing dresses in flashy colors, and glittery sequins. Still, to his eyes, she shined amongst them. It was like watching a lost moth in a swarm of butterflies.  

Nevada knew that a moth could be even more beautiful than a butterfly, something his sister had taught him as a child. 

He noticed she wasn't alone when he saw her chatting with a couple of girls wearing look-at-me dresses, one of which had attempted to seduce him for a couple of ecstasy pills. She wasn't successful, but her teasing made him look towards her friends, finding the girl who was now his point of focus.  

Even with company stupid kids still approached her. One by one, she rejected every guy that came her way. Nevada for once, kept his distance as he watched her do her thing. A complete natural, in his opinion. Didn't even bother to look at them before she sent them packing.  

He cackled loudly while observing the girl from his VIP lounge on the second floor, feeling more and more eager to walk down and make his move on the feisty brunette.  

"I don't know, Trujillo," his thoughts were interrupted when one of his men spoke up. The big man eyed some of his co-workers, looking for supporting glances, "She seems kinda problematic. Bet she don't even live near here, looks too goody-two-shoes." 

"Yeah," said another one, finding the strength to speak. "Those are the first ones to cry rape as soon as you don't call' em the next day."  

"Why don't you let me decide who’s problematic, eh?" Nevada snapped, knowing the betting pool was against him, adding to the thrill of his new challenge: his goal, now, to get that girl.  

After a moment of walking back and forth across the lounge, Nevada stepped down from the metal staircase, straightening his leather jacket and walking towards the girl. She had separated herself from the others, sitting at the bar rather than flirting with the overflow of guys, many of which she’d already rejected. _Being high on ecstasy drives libido up_ , they claimed. She didn't want to know. 

"Hey," she rolled her eyes in annoyance at the feeling of someone taking a seat next to her. "Another one," the stranger ordered to the bartender, placing an empty whiskey glass on the bar, she caught him signaling towards her too. 

"I'm fine," she snapped, not looking at him at all. 

His lips twitched into a smile. Usually, he would say something along the lines " _I didn't fuckin' ask,_ " but then again, he’d seen her reject guys when they’d gotten aggressive with her. So, he’d took an alternative route, explaining, "My mistake, I saw your empty glass," putting up a façade he'd used once or twice before. 

His calm reply, in Spanish no less, caused her to turn her head, a half smirk appearing on her face for the first time. "No hay problema. Thank you," she replied, dropping her guard for a moment. The stranger for one, was very handsome, distinguished, light eyes entrancing her. She couldn’t tell if they were blue or green, the lights from the club not allowing her to see. Dressed in all black, he had dark hair, a scruffy beard, and a devilish smile.   

Oh, he looked like trouble.  

But he’d been so polite, unlike the others that’d approached her that night.  

"You're welcome," he grinned, smile growing wider as soon as he saw her smile. He had this one in the bag, for sure. "I noticed that chico coming towards you," he told her, tilting his head to the side, the girl following his movement and seeing who he was referring to: a buffed, weird-looking guy, high. "He looks kinda fucked up, do you mind if I just sit here til’ he leaves?" This was too easy, playing the white knight a move he often used when hitting on hard-to-get girls. A real classic. 

"I do, I can handle myself. Thanks for the drink, though," she replied before he could react, already leaving the stool and heading towards her friends.  

His knuckles went white from him gripping his glass in frustration. "Sneaky little moth," he grunted, finishing the rest of his drink in a single shot. 

He hadn’t a clue what was coming, Nevada.  

 

* * *

 

A couple of weeks went by, and there’d yet to be a sign of her.  

Nevada had looked for her at his clubs, all of them, making him feel like a high school girl searching for some stud at the mall. He’d felt angry; she was nobody.  

Sulking on his couch at the same VIP lounge he'd saw her from in so many weeks ago, he scowled at the many sluts trying to sit on his legs. Their pathetic attempts at least made him laugh, but after watching the third girl try to flirt with one of his bodyguards to let her pass, realization struck him; he was Nevada "Trujillo" Ramirez, he could have anyone he wanted.  

 _Anyone._   

So, why be bitter over some plain jane when he could have the platinum blonde with the perky tits dancing center stage, or the redhead with the killer legs, drinking cheap martinis by the bar?  

There were tons of beautiful girls, girls that would, at the snap of his fingers, get down on their knees.  

He stepped out of his lounge, green eyes observing that of what the night had to offer. There were blondes, brunettes, redheads, even ones with fantasy colored hair. A group of girls with the most natural looking fake tits danced around him, knowing who he was. He smirked as he walked through the club; they were tall, short, long haired, plastic, with big butts and full lips. They smiled at him, winked, danced for him.  

"Hey, Papi," one of them moaned, approaching him, pressing her braless chest against his arm. 

Nevada raised a single brow, trying to examine her better under the club's flashy lights. She was pretty, yes, but he still hadn't looked around the place. He wouldn’t settle for the first thing placed within reach, he never did. 

"Why so lonely?" she pouted, trying to get on his good side.  

He rolled his eyes, looking to the floor, and wandering to the opposite side of the club, meeting a pair of red, short-heeled shoes. He snorted, his sight now on the fine legs of the girl wearing the "trainer" heels. He stared at her ass, covered by a black dress just a couple of inches above the knees. _This_ _ain't_ _a fuckin' convent_ , he thought.  

Before he could focus on the girl rubbing herself against him, the one in the black cocktail dress turned around. Nevada nearly choked on his own saliva. 

It was her.  

The little moth that’d escaped his flame.  

Violently shoving the girl on his side away, he made a beeline towards the stranger, his mind set on catching her. Before he could arrive, however, her eyes found him, and he felt himself slowing down. That is, until she smiled, her full, painted lips mouthing a greeting, her hand raised in greeting.  

She walked to him as well, meeting him halfway across the dance floor. Without giving him a chance to say anything, she leaned closer, explaining loudly, "Sorry about the other day. I was a bitch." 

"No hay problema, I understand," he answered, biting his tongue as the words left his mouth. Payback would come around, but she had stroked his ego by remembering him, delaying it. He knew now, he hadn’t been the only one thinking about the other.  

"Let me make it up to you? Buy you a drink?" she offered, taking his hand and walking him to the bar.  

Obediently, Nevada followed her around, focusing on the stares they were getting. He glared back at as many people as he could, a glare that could only mean “ _stay the fuck away._ ”  

 

* * *

 

The “King of the Heights” dating. 

It’d seem like a joke. A fucking sick, sadistic joke.  

After they’d first spoke, she’d explained that it was the stress of job hunting that had put her in a bad mood the day they’d met. She also, albeit discreetly, let him know she avoided the Heights for its association with drugs. It seemed hilarious to him, but he’d bit the inside of his cheek to avoid laughing in her face. She hadn't the slightest idea who he was, not really. 

Nevada had somehow managed to convince her he was no trouble, just a guy who frequented that club a lot. That he had a family business he’d inherited, some bullshit auto repair business he used for money laundering. She ate it up, since he was,  _oh, so nice_. 

It started with coffee dates, so many of them Nevada began to gag at the smell of it brewing. That shit went on for weeks until he finally convinced her to go for breakfast. 

Then lunch. Dinner. Drinks... His apartment. 

Jackpot. 

And before he realized, he was hooked.  

To her skin, her lips, her warmth. Her skin was soft, smelling of lavender, sometimes cocoa. Oh, how he adored that. The first woman he'd been with in years that didn't smell like a slut. Her lips were full and delicious, always painted with soft colors, making her look classy rather than trashy. When she wrapped her hands around him, pulling his head to bury him in her chest, it was the most comforting feeling he'd ever experienced.  

This façade didn't last long of course. Even if his secret remained quiet, the real Nevada was beginning to show, only careful to not bring any drug up. He was more than surprised when his abrasive personality didn't drive her away.  

Everybody knew he was a brute, loving to mock people, vocabulary consisting mostly of curse words, being rough when someone pushed his buttons. Not to mention his dominance in bed.  

His little moth hardly made him lose his marbles, though, so there was no need for him to be a complete asshole. That, and the fact that she’d have his ass handed back to him if he dared to raise his voice. She was almost the complete opposite of him, so keeping tabs on her wasn’t necessary. She was a good girl. She was no player, no gossip.  

Nevada felt in heaven.  

Everything was perfect; they’d see each other often despite living on opposite sides of town. Her living far away meant he could handle his business in peace, without the fear of anyone seeing a softer side of him. A side he hadn’t known he had until he met her.  

Everything, it was perfect. Until it wasn't.  

The girl -  _his girl_  -, his little moth, was changing.  

Suddenly they didn’t meet as often, and when they did, she’d be in a bad mood. She never used him as her punching bag, but he’d noticed her mood swings. It was such a fucking buzzkill to see pretty lips pressed thin, a cute forehead tampered with stress lines. 

The sex was still amazing, of course, which was why Nevada had pushed all of his suspicions aside. He never saw it coming; he never felt her drifting away.  

Not until that day. 

They’d met at their usual place, a hotel halfway between both their places, an expensive suite with champagne and a large jacuzzi.  

After they’d have sex, she usually would stay next to him, and they’d spoon while the jacuzzi filled up. He would've made fun of her, jokingly pushed her away, claimed he needed his space, and it’d end up with him dragging himself all over the bed, following her like a puppy.  

That day, though, she’d stood up without asking for a kiss first, not that it’d bother him.   

Well, it did, but  _as if_ he’d ever admit it.  

What really made him knit his brows and crunch his nose, was when, instead of setting up the jacuzzi, she’d began to gather her clothes. "I have to stop this,” she muttered, slipping into the skirt Nevada had ripped from her body upon arriving.  

“Don’t sweat it, lil' moth. I’ll buy ya' a new one, eh?” the Kingpin dismissed her complaints, uncomfortably shifting in the, now too big for him, bed and lighting up a cigar. 

“I’m not talking about my clothes. I’m perfectly capable of buying them myself,” she snapped, causing the man in the bed to raise both hands in the air, mockingly. She sighed, looking for the right words. “I’m talking about this… us.” 

Nevada raised a single brow and suppressed a cocky smirk. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong with this?” he inquired, “with us?” The last word caught up in his throat, warmth spreading in his chest.  

He liked that word. Fuck. 

“You know damn well what’s wrong with this,” she said, coming closer to him, sitting on the bed next to his naked body. Her eyes lowered, unfocused, and she traced swirls with delicate fingers on his chest. He moved his free hand to her chin, pinching it slightly to raise her face and make her look at him. His green eyes squinted, as he bit his lower lip, ever so seductively. Before he could open his mouth, she leaned in, planting a kiss on his lips, before quickly jerking away from his open arms. “I’m sorry Nevada. Thank you for everything, it was nice.”  

Then again she ran, quicker than he could react.  

Those were the last words he’d heard from her before watching her storm out. Normally he would’ve made a scene: would’ve screamed, broke things, chased her down.  

Because nobody left Nevada Ramirez.  

 _Nobody._   

But she had like he was nothing, and, instead of standing up and following, forcing her to stay, he’d froze. His lips burned with the ghost of her kiss. His vision became blurry, and he wondered, briefly, if he were passing out. 

No. 

He was crying. 

 

* * *

 

 

He should've had someone follow her. That way he would at least know where she lived. What a fucking idiot, why hadn’t he thought of that before? He’d let his guard down for too long, but what reason did he have to keep it up? They were fine; everything was okay. Wasn't it?  

It was useless now, to blame himself. She was gone, and there was nothing he could do anymore.  

Life sucked, he was furious, bitter, stressed out of his mind. Thankfully, he’d plenty of people to take his anger out on. That was one less weight on his shoulders at least. Her scent, however was another issue, the smell of her burning his nostrils 24/7, like he’d been impregnated with her perfume. He hated it, and it wouldn't go away, no matter how many cigars he smoked or shit he snorted. That feeling in his chest, well, what the fuck was it? Hollow and aching at the same time. Sometimes it felt as if all the air had been pressed out of his lungs. 

He didn’t know how long it’d been since she’d left, weeks, months perhaps. Nevada spent most of his time drunk, high. He’d even started to delegate, not wanting to deal with anybody he knew, anyone who’d make him lose it.  

There were other girls, plenty of them; the man still had his needs. But he’d never been satisfied by these women, and it’d annoyed him to have to deal with them before having sex, after, and sometimes even during. Every girl that came his way did their best to be his lady, trying hard, perhaps  _too_  hard. They only wanted him for his money, his power, his drugs. He was starting to realize he was never going to find someone like her, like his little moth.  

"Papi," his latest fuck hugged him from behind, rubbing her breasts against his back. "Papi, I could stay if you want me to." 

Nevada tried to shrug her off, putting back on his clothes that stank.  _Fucking bitches and their cheap perfume_ _s_ , he thought bitterly, he didn't want to talk.  

"Papi," she pouted, extending the last syllable. God, was she annoying.  

A yell threatened to escape his throat, but he bit his tongue, not really in the mood for arguing with pendejas. "Lárgate," Nevada spat, thoroughly irritated at this point.  

"But-" she’d tried to protest, bad move.  

"I said," he finally turned around, bloodshot eyes piercing like blades. "Get. The. Fuck. Out." Every syllable a bullet aimed at her, his voice low and guttural, scarier than when he yelled.  

Without another word, she left the bed, dressing faster than she ever had, making a beeline for the door. Her escape was interrupted by one of Nevada's men, him opening the door abruptly, hitting her in the process and sending her tumbling to the floor.  

"Trujillo," his voice trembled. "Trujillo, we have a problem. You need to come," cold sweat ran down his face, and he thought his legs would fail when his boss turned to look at him.  

It was the beginning of the end.  

 _The beginning of his end._  

 


End file.
